


Bad Friends with Benefits

by FictionAddictions23



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming Out, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, Family Issues, Fluff and Humor, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 13:09:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12771753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionAddictions23/pseuds/FictionAddictions23
Summary: Zoro's family is constantly pressuring him to follow in Kuina's footsteps, yet his mother has never truly forgiven him for her death. When Sanji accidental learns some of the swordsman's secrets, his reaction is not what the Zoro expected. Perhaps there's more to their antagonistic relationship than either of them ever dared to imagine.





	Bad Friends with Benefits

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm just trying my hand at AUs to get a feel for it before I start a longer fic. I'm sure I'll add a bonus smut chapter when can find the time to write it just for the sake of increasing the feels. Enjoy :)

Zoro was being yelled at again. The woman standing before him was causing a scene on the front patio of the Baratie, a restaurant famous for its incredible food, which he frequented often enough that the staff knew him by name. She was tall and broad-shouldered with a strong chin and a fierce scowl that rivaled Zoro’s own on a bad day, and her attention-catching green hair, though darkened with age, was a trademark genetic trait in their family.

Her name was Ingrid Roronoa, and she was the uptight, overbearing matriarch who constantly made his life a living hell—technically his mother, though he refused to think of her in such terms and hadn’t since he was very young. Disrespectful, manipulative, and volatile were only some of the words that described their relationship, as well as the woman herself, and it was largely due to his father—her husband—that Zoro even remained in contact with her into adulthood.

He was twenty-one years old, had a good job, good friends, and was relatively accomplished for someone his age, but none of that mattered to her. In all honesty, he didn’t think he would ever be able to please her, even if he managed to fulfill her every whim and wish, because Zoro would always be the second-born—the consolation prize that she’d had no choice but to accept thanks to a missed birth control pill and the sparkling joy in her first child’s eyes when she'd given birth to him in the hospital.

Kuina was his older sister, the precious daughter of Koshiro and Ingrid, and the pride of the Roronoa family…or she had been until the accident that had killed her. Zoro still thought about it every day, and even if he hadn’t loved her like the sun, his mother wouldn’t have let him forget.

It had been his fault, after all. His arrogance and selfish, wounded pride had killed his only sister all because he’d never been able to claw his way out from her shadow, and the frustration he’d felt had caused him to act recklessly. She wouldn’t have fallen down that flight of stairs if he hadn’t challenged her to another sword fight—if he hadn’t insisted on using the real katana that his father kept in the basement of their family’s dojo—if she hadn’t gone down to that basement to sneak them back into their proper places after she’d beaten him again for the thousandth time. _“You’re weak, Zoro,”_ she’d told him.

He was still weak. In all these years, he’d never been unable to stop blaming himself for Kuina’s death, and although his mother would never admit it, Zoro was convinced that she hated him for it. His entire childhood had been tainted by the fact that the Roronoas had one child to carry the weight of their family’s legacy, instead of two, because of him.

He would never be good enough for her—no matter how skilled at swordsmanship he was, no matter how many competitions he won, or how many rivals he defeated, he would always be the unwanted second child who had killed her baby girl—snuffed out Kuina’s light before she’d even had the chance to begin burning bright. She’d been a prodigy, a master swordsman in the making, and the spark that had rekindled their immigrant parents’ hope for a better future, filled with all the privileges that came with the title of World’s Greatest Swordsman—fame, fortune, and honor for the struggling dojo where they’d started it all.

Even ten years later, he still had so much guilt and anger inside, and he hated himself for it. He hated that he’d never been able to beat her, not once. He hated that she’d hated _herself_ for being born a girl—but most of all, he hated swordsmanship since it was partly to blame for killing her. Their parents’ obsession with it had swallowed up Kuina’s youth and forced her to practice day in and day out. They made her sacrifice a normal childhood and grow up too quickly so that their parents could live out their own dreams through her.

That curse had been passed on to their son as well, and Zoro might have given up the way of the sword all together if it weren’t for the only other person who had ever been able to truly rival him—and piss him off—like Kuina had.

He remembered the day they’d met with such stark clarity that he doubted he could forget even a moment of it. Against his parent’s wishes, Zoro had continued practicing swordsmanship on his own terms. Instead of honing his skills for respectable, state-sanctioned competitions, he had rebelled by rejecting the time-honored art of kendo for what his mother described as the “barbaric perversion” of their family’s most cherished tradition.

Illegal fight clubs and back-alley challenges had filled Zoro’s youth, hardening the weak, angry boy into a stoic warrior who didn’t hesitate to spill blood—his own or otherwise. He’d remained foolish, though—a fatal flaw that was permanently etched into his skin because of a certain hawk-eyed swordsman who’d made a name for himself in the unofficial fighting scene. Dracule “Hawkeyes” Mihawk was the undisputed champion of the underworld, at least where swordsmanship was concerned, and Zoro was convinced that if the man ever deigned to try his sword in a professional, competitive context then he would certainly be known worldwide as the greatest swordsman.

Zoro wanted to defeat that man more than anything—not for the fame and fortune, not for his parents’ approval, but for Kuina and the promise they’d made as children _._ His sister meant the world to him, and he had refused to let her believe that she wasn’t good enough to stand beside him at the top. Now she would never get the chance to fight him for the title of the best, so he would just have to claim it for the both of them.

That desire had fueled his adolescent ego until he'd made the mistake of challenging the world’s greatest in a desperate act of arrogance that had ended in him narrowly avoiding death, and he still had the wicked scar across his chest to prove it. The duel had been no laughing matter, and Mihawk had nearly sliced him in half even after Zoro had earned his respect as a swordsman. It had been an embarrassingly swift and crushing defeat that had opened his eyes to his own weakness and the immense gap between their strength, which had only spurred him on further and increased his determination.

That day had also brought a new rival into his life, and it had been the start of a rivalry so intense and long-lasting that it was borderline romantic in a twisted sort of way. Zoro would never forget the aftermath of his fight with Mihawk when he’d been lying there in a pool of his own blood, his chest screaming in agony as tears blurred his vision of the blond hair swimming into view. He barely remembered that particular image since he’d been on the verge of passing out, but he did remember blinking in annoyance and thinking it was the sun.

He’d woken up in the hospital with a blond man—a complete stranger—sitting at his bedside, and that had been his first real meeting with the cook. Sanji, the foul-mouthed chef who worked at the Baratie and fought in the same underground fight clubs where Zoro had found Mihawk, had been among the crowd of curious onlookers who had witnessed the slash that had almost returned him to Kuina. He had also been the only responsible bystander with enough sense to apply pressure to the wound and call an ambulance before Zoro bled out in the street.

He’d saved his life, and Zoro had initially resented him for it—mainly because the swordsman was an asshole, but then again, so was the cook. The two of them had begun bickering the minute he’d opened his eyes in that hospital room, and they hadn’t stopped since. Zoro and Sanji had remained at each other’s throats until the news of the swordsman’s defeat reached the ears of his friends and family, and the hot-tempered cook had simply melted into the group of worried visitors as if he’d been a part of it all along. Somehow, but most likely due to the beautiful Nami and Robin showing up at Zoro’s bedside, Sanji had become a permanent addition to their group of misfits.

Zoro’s rivalry with the cook had rekindled his love for swordsmanship after his crushing defeat. The relationship he’d had with Kuina was so similar to the one he had with Sanji that, for a long while, Zoro couldn’t stand to be around him. He was always too aggravated to analyze why the cook got under his skin so easily and instead insisted that he hated the blond man. What he really hated, though, was how much Sanji reminded him of his late sister.

They were so similar while still being so very different that the irony was painful. Sanji had Kuina’s fighting spirit, her honorable and caring heart, and her tendency to utterly piss Zoro off with her superiority and smug confidence. They both shared a love for battle and a determination to be better—stronger—than they were the day before. Zoro admired their courage, and their ability to know their own weakness and keep fighting despite it. Once he’d realized how much Sanji was like her, it suddenly made sense why the cook had always affected him the way he did. It also didn’t help that Sanji shared Kuina’s sharp mind, which he similarly utilized to keep Zoro on his toes with constant insults and clever comebacks.

There were other similarities, but the true irony was in the stark differences, like the fact that Sanji made a point to never fight with his hands—the exact opposite of a swordsman’s fighting style. He was also chivalrous to the extreme, constantly doting on the female form and treating women like goddesses who deserved to be raised up on pedestals. He saw them as objects to be revered and protected because of their gender, which was completely contrary to Kuina’s beliefs. She had always strived for gender equality and would have hated the womanizing cook’s attitude toward the “fairer sex.”    

For Zoro, the biggest difference stemmed from the fact that Sanji was not related to him. Zoro had rarely interacted with people outside of his family until he’d been far beyond the point of developing normal social tendencies. His strange group of friends had likely accepted him simply because of his status as an outsider, but Sanji had been different. Their relationship had blossomed from a chance encounter and a mutual interest in fighting, which was something that always brought them together and allowed them to develop their skills through rigorous sparring.

Somehow, they’d become inseparable—some might even say friends. Although, anyone who thought they were friends had likely never seen them during a _real_ disagreement. There was still some truth to the label, though. Both men would never admit it, but they needed each other when life simply became too much. Sanji and Zoro—the cook and the swordsman—two warriors who shared a sense of comradery in the heat of a fight. Their tag-team matches were legendary. Outside of the fighting arena, if either man ever needed to let off steam and briefly forget the hardships in their lives, they would seek out the other for the distraction of a challenge. It had always been that way, which was why the two of them were currently eating brunch at the Baratie.

Zoro had received a scathing voicemail from his mother the day before, berating him for deliberately throwing an exhibition match that could have opened his way into this season’s national kendo competition, which had put him in a terrible mood. Naturally, he had “accidentally” run into Sanji at the gym earlier that day, and the two of them had gone at it with every advanced maneuver they had in their arsenals. Sanji had looked at him afterward from his place on the training mats, lying flat and sprawling after their vigorous match, and had casually invited him to the restaurant where he worked.

The cook would never admit that he could sense Zoro’s uneasiness and had responded to it in the best way he knew how—“Let’s get something to eat, marimo. I’m starved.” Stupid nickname aside, it wasn’t unusual for them to go out together after a fight, though it usually only happened when one of them was feeling considerably unbalanced and the other would pick up on the fragility of their mental state. It was an unspoken pact they shared to use the other as a coping mechanism when something serious was bothering them and talking it out wasn’t an option.

Instead, they would fight it out and then go to the Baratie to rebuild their stamina and exchange clever banter. That was how Zoro ended up in the embarrassing position of confronting his mother, or rather she confronted him, in public and in front of the shitty-cook no less. Ingrid Roronoa was a force to be reckoned with, and there was nothing stopping her from unleashing her full maternal fury on her son in the crowded patio.    

“Since you didn’t have the courtesy to return my call, I had no choice but to find you myself,” Ingrid told her son emphatically. “Care to explain yourself, boy?”

Zoro just looked at her, frowning at the delicious plate of food in front of him, which he would likely have to eat cold now—his mother knew how to stretch a lecture for hours. He worked hard to keep his annoyance from showing on his face since he didn’t want Sanji to realize how often he received these rebukes from the green-haired woman.

“I didn’t call you back because I have nothing to say,” he grunted in his most bored tone. “Just go home. Hearing your bullshit will spoil my meal.”

“Is that the way you speak to your own mother, idiot-swordsman?” Sanji interjected, aghast. He turned immediately to the elder woman with his most charming smile in place. “He’s such an ingrate. I’m so sorry that a lovely lady such as yourself has to tolerate his boorish manners,” the cook said to her placatingly. Zoro immediately shot him a pointed glare, and some indication of the seriousness of the encounter must have shown on his face because the blond man sat back and politely extricated himself from the conversation.

Ingrid ignored the cook’s words entirely, her eyes passing over him with sharp disapproval before returning to glare at her son. “Have you no shame in dishonouring your family? Your fight last week was absolutely pathetic,” she hissed angrily.

“It was just an exhibition match.”

“I don’t care what kind of match it was. When you enter an arena wearing our family’s crest, you have a responsibility to represent us with the best techniques you possess. How could you lose to such a weakling from a rival dojo?”

“You and dad both know that I’m better than that. I don’t care about the scores that get recorded—I only showed up because you wouldn’t stop pestering me about it.”

“Wait, what is she talking about, marimo? You didn’t tell me you had a match this week, and you _never_ lose,” Sanji cut in, apparently too surprised at the notion of Zoro losing to keep out of their business.

Ingrid’s eyebrows rose when she heard the silly nickname directed at her son, and she pierced the blond man with a look so frosty that his pale cheeks flushed pink, lips snapping shut. The swordsman might have teased the cook for cowering under his mother’s penetrating gaze had he not been doing the exact same thing internally.

“I suppose you reserve your best performances for those unlawful brawls. It’s a pity that you waste so much time lazing about with these bloody flamers rather than training like a professional. How do you expect to advance to the national championships?”

Zoro cringed inwardly when Sanji noticeably bristled at her words, glancing at Zoro in confusion. The cook didn’t know that the swordsman was gay, but his mother did, and she had never been able to accept it. She was as conservative as they came, and also a hardcore Christian, not to mention an asshole—though, none of those things were necessarily related. Usually she would pretend to be oblivious, but it seemed that she was angry enough to scold him in every aspect of his life today.

“You know as well as I do that I threw the match. I don’t want to do anymore of those stupid competitions—Mihawk is my only goal.”

“That is unacceptable. You are my son, and I will not have you shirking your duty to this family to gallivant about with this…this…” she gestured wildly at Sanji, who looked even more startled by her obvious disdain, as she searched for a suitable slur.

“Oi, leave him alone. We just came here to get some food after the gym—”

“I’ll thank you to stop there. I’d prefer not to know what you do with him,” she cut in coldly.

The cook flushed even harder, seeming to finally understand what the woman was implying, and hastily stood from the table. “Please, Mrs. Roronoa. My name is Sanji—I work at this restaurant. Our conversation seems to be distracting the other customers, so if we could all just—”

“Excuse me, _Sanji,_ ” she said, pronouncing his name like it left a bad taste in her mouth, “but I believe I was speaking to my _son_ ,” she snapped rudely.

He closed his mouth with a small frown but remained standing where he was. It was true that Ingrid’s raised tone had attracted the attention of the other customers on the patio as well as the maître d. Zoro stood quickly, gesturing for Sanji to look through the restaurant's window.

“Let me deal with this, Cook. Go and stop Patty from creating a scene,” he said firmly, half-surprised to see the other man nod curtly and do as he was asked for once.

As soon as Sanji left to intercept his co-worker’s purposeful march towards the irate woman, Ingrid took Zoro’s upper arm in a tight grip, digging her nails into the hard flesh. “Really? A skinny kitchen boy for the prospective greatest swordsman?” she said derisively, tugging once at her son’s arm. “I’m starting to believe that your real goal is to disappoint me in every possible way.”

“What tipped you off?” Zoro asked sarcastically to mask his growing fury. He was used to his mother disrespecting him, but a fresh wave of anger filled him at her degrading words toward the cook. Rather than correct the misunderstanding, he was already defending his rival before the thought even occurred to him to set her straight. “I’ll have you know that his father _owns_ this restaurant. Sanji is the head chef, and he’d probably be an even better fighter than me if he’d started as young and trained as hard as you made Kuina and I.”

The mention of his sister seemed to harden his mother’s features into her typical sneer. “A chef? How lucky for you since you won’t have a beautiful wife to cook for you,” she said icily, gripping him even tighter. “Get up. I have more to say to you, and your father will hear it as well. He is far too lenient with you.”

“Look, it isn’t like that—”

She cut him off with another glare and a more insistent tug, forcing him to follow her off of the patio and escape the growing unrest of the curious onlookers. She must have walked from her office because she didn’t lead him to her car but into the nearest alleyway obscured from public view.

“Why can’t you listen to your mother, Zoro? It would break both mine and your father’s hearts if you quit competing before we have something to show for all the money we put into training you and your sister.”

“Yeah, what a lot of good it did her,” he snapped instantly, recoiling from his own words a moment later when the pain washed over him. It was as fresh as it had been the day they’d found Kuina dead. He didn’t think he would ever be able to remember it without feeling that crushing sadness and immeasurable guilt. His mother had never fully healed from the loss of her firstborn child either. Her eyes flashed angrily, and she shoved the swordsman roughly against the brick wall. He allowed her to lay her hands on him since it wasn’t like he could fight back in this situation—she wasn’t worth fighting anyways.

“Don’t speak to me of your sister if you can’t even measure up to her!” Ingrid yelled wildly. “Kuina would have done what was best for the dojo—she would be a national champion by now, but instead our family was cursed with an ungrateful son!”

“You have no idea what she would have wanted!” he yelled back. “I hate how you always make this about _her_ whenever you don’t feel like making it about _you._ You can’t force me to do what you want forever—not using her name.”

“You think I don’t know what my own daughter wanted? She lived and breathed kendo, and she loved this family. How can you take up her sword and then dishonor her memory like this?”

“Because I’m striving for Kuina’s _real_ dream! You didn’t know her at all! She never cared about winning trophies or making a name for herself in the competitive circuit—she just wanted to be the best because she loved swordsmanship,” Zoro explained hotly. “You’re just a bitter old gold-digger—you’ll never understand that.”

Rage flared in her green eyes, briefly transforming her face into something demonic. He was used to these quick changes because his mother had always been…temperamental ever since he was a child. A less prideful man might have called her abusive, but Zoro had always been strong enough to take whatever punishments she'd doled out. Her current expression reminded him of some of the worst times that she had lost her temper.

He braced himself for a beating and was not surprised when her hand cracked against the side of his face. Zoro was old enough that she never had to reign in her full strength. The force of the blow snapped his head to the side and would have been relatively harmless had he not been standing with his back against the wall, but as they were, he felt a stinging pain flare along his temple when his head connected with a sharp piece jutting out of the brick. Similar pain blossomed along his left cheekbone where the ring on her hand had cut him.

“Alright, I think that’s enough.”

Zoro and his mother both jumped at the sound of Sanji’s deep smoker’s voice, laced with quiet anger, cutting into the silence in the alley. The resounding echo of her slap faded away as the cook strode around the corner and stopped in front of the seething woman.

“ _Excuse_ me?” his mother said, scandalized. “We are having a private conversation, and it is no business of yours! My son will not be rejoining you. He has to continue his training, and he won’t be entering any more of those barbaric street fights either—not if I have anything to say about it.” She turned away from the cook before he could offer a reply, gritting her teeth in Zoro’s direction. “I expect you to cut ties with all of those ruffians from whatever little club you waste your talents brawling for. As for _him_ …”

Sanji met her derisive gaze directly, his expression carefully schooled and hands resting calmly in his pockets. “Do you have something against me, ma’am?” he asked her, politely but firmly.

“How ridiculous—I’ve barely given you a thought. I do, however, have a problem with anyone who selfishly distracts my son from his training.”

“With all due respect, I think that sparring together and getting a hot meal afterward is the opposite of distracting.”

“I doubt your focus is solely on _sparring_ —unless your kind take the word to mean something else,” she said contemptuously.  

“Wha—w-wait a minute, you’re being extremely presumptuous,” he sputtered uncomfortably.

“Leave it alone, Cook. She’s as old-fashioned as they come. Anything you say is only going to make her angrier and further this conversation, which was going nowhere to begin with _._ I’m done,” Zoro said firmly, directing the last statement at his mother. “That was the last official match for me, unless Mihawk suddenly decides to start showing up for tournaments. I want to use my sword—Kuina’s sword—to become the best by my own path.”

“You can’t do this—I won’t allow you to continue jeopardizing the dojo’s reputation. You are a part of this family!”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to remove that burden for you. Don’t expect me back for the holidays anytime soon. Tell dad that I’ll call him directly if I want to visit him,” he said with finality.

“You can’t be serious—”

“Believe me, I’m as serious as terminal cancer.”

“Don’t think you can get away with this so easily, brat! I’ve told you before—it would be simple for me to make a few calls about your underground _business._ If you won’t accept your father’s and my charity then perhaps you’ll find a new family in state prison—”

“Go ahead and do it. I have people who would help me avoid a serious charge if you choose to involve the law. I won’t let you blackmail me with your ridiculous bluffs anymore. Do it if you’re so bitter about it because I’m through.”

“Your sister would hate how you’ve become so thankless and disobedient—”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s _rolling_ in her grave at the insult,” he snorted, curling his fingers into fists. _Again_ she was throwing Kuina’s death in his face—trying to manipulate him with his own guilt!

“Woah, woah. Okay, I think you could both use some time to cool off,” Sanji cut it awkwardly, hoping to intervene before the exponentially increasing tension became too much. As far as Zoro knew, the cook had only ever heard his sister’s name—he had no idea that she was dead, and the open sympathy on his face confirmed it. When he snuck a glance at Zoro, something flickered in his gaze that was a mixture of hurt and pity—it made Zoro angry because his mother had revealed yet another detail about his private life to the cook without his permission.

“I won’t say this again,” Ingrid snapped at Sanji. “Mind your own business, you little fagg—”

“Don’t you _dare_ finish that sentence,” Zoro growled immediately. He was preparing to continue with a more elaborate rebuke when Sanji surprised him by moving deliberately in front of the swordsman as if he were stepping in as Zoro’s second in a fight. 

Even more shocking was the fact that he was no longer masking his anger even though it was directed toward a woman. “I apologize, Mrs. Roronoa. I mistook you for a respectable lady, so I was waiting patiently for this little spat to be over, but now I think we’ll be going, right Zoro? If you’ll excuse us, we haven’t finished our lunch,” he told her, more coldly than Zoro had ever heard him speak to a female.

“Who do you think you are, ordering my son around? I won’t let some hussy interfere with my family’s affairs.”

Despite the situation, Zoro let slip a small laugh when he saw Sanji’s comically indignant expression at being called a "hussy" by a screaming middle-aged woman. The cook flushed a delicate shade of red and immediately cut off the sound with an angry glare directed at the green-haired man.

“…I like to think I’m a perfect gentleman,” he got out stiffly, avoiding Zoro’s eyes. The swordsman was astounded by his response and confused as to why the blond wasn’t bothering to deny her false accusations. The last thing he ever would have imagined the love-cook going along with was the notion that he was gay—and for _Zoro_ of all people. Their mutual friend, Franky, had made an offhand comment to that effect once, and he’d had his head kicked in for it.

When Ingrid continued to glare at the other man in silence, he finally cleared his throat and said, “Well, this has been the _worst_ meet-the-parents experience I’ve had the misfortune of stumbling into. I hope your father is more open-minded, Zoro.”

The swordsman just looked at him, too flabbergasted to respond even when Sanji gave him a pointed look to encourage him to end the conversation. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Sanji was talking like they actually _were_ in some sort of relationship when the cook made it even worse by slipping his hand into Zoro’s.

“Come on. Let’s go,” he said insistently, breaking the swordsman out of his trance with a sharp squeeze of his fingers. Ingrid stared at their conjoined hands with quiet fury, her hand reeling back to strike out at them.

“How _dare—_ ”

Her next slap was stopped, along with her words, by Zoro’s quick reflexes and his furious glare. He never bothered to prevent her from hitting him since he barely felt the blows anymore, but this time she’d been aiming for the cook.

“Touch him, and you’ll regret it. I promise you that,” he growled menacingly.

“Fine,” she snapped, wrenching her hand away. “Have it your way. We’ll see how long this stubbornness will last. When your father and I end up having to sell the dojo, we’ll see how quickly you come crawling back. It may be your home, but it will always be mine and your father’s house. Don’t expect me to give it to such an ungrateful excuse for a child after I’m dead and gone,” she threatened, turning one last scathing glance on Sanji. “Enjoy your useless distraction.”

The cook raised his hand in a silencing gesture when Zoro opened his mouth to finally clear up the misunderstanding, stopping the swordsman in his tracks with the look on his face—it was downright mischievous, which seemed so out of place that Zoro had to pause. His mother left them both in the alley, half-stomping back the way they’d come. It was laughable that she would go out of her way and waste her own lunch-break to scold her grown son, but it was even more laughable that she would probably be steaming for the next few hours, marching around her office red-faced and muttering to herself.

“Well,” Sanji stated, releasing Zoro’s hand to fish a cigarette out of his pocket and light it. “I guess you really were telling the truth.”

“H-huh?”

The cook gestured to his own head with a grin. “Your stupid hair, marimo. It really _is_ genetic.”

Zoro snorted and said, “God, I hope that’s the only thing I inherited from her.”

“That was terrifying.”

“Yeah, imagine living with it for eighteen years.”

There was a short pause while Sanji took a few inhales of nicotine before saying, “I’m sorry. I…didn’t know.”

“It’s not like _you_ did anything, Cook.”

“Yeah but I still feel bad. We’ve known each other for years, and I had no idea…I mean, you should’ve told me—at least about Kuina. I’ve been making a total fool out of myself with the way I always talked about meeting your beautiful older sister, and you never even bothered to mention the fact that she’s dead,” he muttered uncomfortably, flicking away his cigarette ash with a subtle anger that surprised the swordsman.

“What difference does it make? It has nothing to do with you.”

“Bullshit. It’s clear that this has been going on for a while now, and if it has something to do with our fights pissing off your family then I’m an accomplice, aren’t I? What the hell was she talking about—you threw a match? That doesn’t seem like you.”

“It was just a preliminary fight. I didn’t want to continue in the tournament, which my mother isn’t pleased about, obviously.”

Sanji shuddered for dramatic effect and said, “That woman is a real piece of work. Now I know why you’ve always been so socially inept—she probably kept you locked up in the gym overnight with nothing but a handful of swords and training dummies to talk to.”

“Well, you’re not too far off,” Zoro replied sheepishly. His expression faltered slightly when a small trickle of blood slid farther down his face. He wiped it impatiently with the back of his hand, directing the cook’s attention to the injury.

“Shit, she actually drew blood,” he said amazedly, leaning in to inspect the worse of the two cuts.

“It’s fine, just leave it,” Zoro insisted.

“That one’s still got pieces of wall in it. Come back to the Baratie, and we’ll clean it up,” Sanji offered, snuffing out the rest of his cigarette against the brick over Zoro’s shoulder. The motion brought him slightly closer to the swordsman, who was starting to become suspicious of the other man’s behaviour. Why was he being so nice all of a sudden? And why was he still standing so close when he’d just suggested they move out of the alleyway?

“Thanks, but I think I’ll take my chances. I’ll leave some money for lunch, but then I’m gonna go…well, not home but somewhere—maybe crash at Luffy and Ace’s place. I’m totally burnt out after the gym this morning and then having to deal with _her._ ”

“Don’t worry about it. You should really finish eating if you’re tired—I can whip something else up in five minutes. Nothing’s better for replenishing energy than my cooking, even though I know you wish you could sleep everything off, lazy marimo.”

“Fuck off, I’m not lazy—and who says I want to eat _your_ shit food, Cook?”

“Why don’t you come say that to my father’s face, and we’ll see how _your_ face looks after he kicks it in, fucker.”

“What, can’t do it yourself? You skipped out on training last week. Getting flabby?”

Sanji’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but he was still smiling. The strange thing was that his smile appeared genuine…and he _still_ hadn’t put any distance between them.

“I’m gonna let that comment slide because there’s something I’m curious about.”

“Look,” Zoro said quickly, feeling more confused than ever when the cook moved even closer. “I don’t know what you want, but my family affairs really aren’t any of your business. I’m sorry for how my mother was treating you, but she won’t be coming around here again, so if you could keep this to yourself, that’d be great.”

“I suppose that’s true. It’s not like you’re obligated to tell me anything about yourself,” he replied, rather bitterly, “but I did just tell a woman a lie, so I’d like to know if there’s any truth to it.”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t ask you to butt in,” Zoro argued.

“This,” Sanji said, demonstrating his point by grabbing the swordsman’s hand again and holding their interlocked fingers up for effect. “She was pretty rude to me just now. Is this something else that you decided to keep to yourself all this time?”

Zoro pulled his hand back with an indignant jerk, scowling at the other man’s knowing smirk. “I'm pretty sure that’s even _less_ of your business,” he said icily.

“There’s no need to be so defensive. It’s not like I’m gonna stone you in public. I do know how to keep a secret.”

“It’s not a secret—I just don’t want to talk about it with you, alright? What the hell is your angle with all these questions?” he asked stiffly.

“It was only one question, dumbass. I’ll take your evasiveness as a confirmation.”

“Whatever. I’m leaving. Thanks for the food,” he said dismissively, attempting to side-step the other man and escape the conversation.

“Oi, hold on a minute. You played along when I made your mother think there was something going on between us. Is there any truth to it or were you just improvising?”

“Are you seriously asking me that just because I’m gay? Why are straight guys such bloody narcissists?” Zoro asked angrily. It hadn’t even been five minutes since the cook found out, and he was already implying that Zoro might be attracted to him. Truthfully, the swordsman _was_ attracted to him—he wasn’t blind—but it wasn’t like it should _matter_. It was no different than how the cook felt about Nami and Robin, who weren’t the slightest bit interested in Sanji’s flirtations, and they were still friends even though the girls knew that he found them attractive.

“Who said I was straight? We’re living in a progressive society, marimo. Sexuality is a spectrum.”

Zoro just gawked at him, unsure of how to reply to such a vague statement. If the cook was just trying to make a point about sexuality in general, he was going about it the wrong way, especially if he thought that the swordsman might be interested in him like that because then it would just be cruel to give him false hope. 

“I’m not so conceited that I would assume myself to be your type. Consider it genuine curiosity,” Sanji told him wryly.

“I don’t have a _type,_ ” Zoro replied uncomfortably. The other man was still invading his personal space, and it was starting to make his face grow hot with nervous embarrassment. Why did the stupid cook have to push his buttons like this? He had to know that if Zoro admitted to finding him attractive then it would only make things awkward the next time they were rolling around at the gym in the middle of a spar.

“What if I told you that _I_ had a type, and you happen to meet the requirements?”

“I’d tell you to go fuck yourself. Is this some kind of sick joke? You’re not exactly the epitome of queerness—far from it, love-cook.”

Sanji shrugged and didn’t deny it. It was no secret that he was a womanizer, and Zoro hadn’t forgotten his reaction when Franky had hinted that the cook and the swordsman might have some sexual tension between them.

“Do you really think I’d fuck with you like that?”

“Um… _yes._ You’re an asshole, or did you forget?”

“Gee thanks. You’re an asshole too, you know. Do you always get this pissy when someone shows an interest in you?”

“Excuse me if I’m finding it a little hard to believe—it’s not like we’re friends,” he replied unthinkingly. He hadn’t meant to be rude about it, but it was true that they didn’t define their sometimes-volatile relationship in such terms. Zoro instantly regretted the way that had come out and tried to express his remorse with an apologetic glance, but to his astonishment, Sanji wasn’t looking at him in anger.

Instead, he shot the swordsman a brazen smile and said, “We don’t have to be friends to fuck,” which actually short-circuited Zoro’s brain with the sheer bluntness of the statement.

“You…I—I don’t…what the hell, Sanji?!”

“What?” the cook asked him, feigning innocence. “You don’t want to?”

It was just like that bastard to act so damn casual after throwing the swordsman into a confusing whirlwind of emotions and, admittedly, horniness. The cook was certainly a desirable man, but Zoro had absolutely refused to let himself think too deeply on that fact out of respect for Sanji’s presumed heterosexuality. Now the other man’s words were resonating in his ears—but he must have dreamed it because there was just no way this was really happening. Maybe his mother had actually committed filicide and murdered him in a rage after they’d left the Baratie, and this was just a twisted version of the afterlife. If he couldn’t sleep with Sanji in heaven then he never would, right?

“Earth to Zoro? Did the moss spread from your head into your ears? My pride is being wounded here,” the cook told him with fake distress.

“Uh…”

“A simple yes or no would do. I don’t have all day.”

“Prove it,” Zoro told him suddenly, forcing himself to look the other man in the eye and make the demand in case this really was a bluff.

“Eh?”

“You tell me that you hate me on a regular basis and constantly talk shit about me being stupid, ugly, and unmannerly, so I’m obviously more than a little skeptical.”

“Well if I’m being honest, you’re only _one_ of those things,” Sanji told him with a smug little smile that said Zoro would have to guess which one.

“You can understand my suspicion, can’t you? I’m not just gonna fall for it if it’s an act.”

“Tch. Maybe you’re two of those things, after all. Will you answer the question already? Otherwise I’ll look like just as big of an idiot.”

“You’re not exactly helping your case here.”

Sanji huffed in annoyance, glancing around pointedly at their surroundings with a childish pout that Zoro couldn’t deny was actually incredibly cute. “I’m not gonna kiss you in a damn alleyway—I have more class than that,” he asserted, crossing his arms in a nervous gesture.

“Wha—you’re not gonna kiss me _at all,_ Cook.”

“Well how else do you expect me to prove it? I don’t exactly have a secret stash of gay porn in my apartment to show you.”

“Fine…then I’ll just kiss _you,_ ” Zoro decided, reaching out to catch hold of the other man’s belt and jerk him a step closer.

Sanji threw his hands up automatically to catch himself, leaving his palms resting on each of the swordsman’s upper arms. They both paused, the cook drawing in a sharp breath as the abrupt movement brought their lips within an inch of each other’s, and his hands squeezed reflexively around Zoro’s toned biceps.

“Now would be a good time to tell me if you were making this shit up,” he said seriously, giving the cook one last chance to back out.  

“How about you follow through on your word, shitty-swordsman,” he replied playfully, their breaths mingling as they unconsciously lined themselves up. Zoro’s heart thumped excitedly, his skin tingling in anticipation now that he was certain this was _not_ a dream. Even if it did turn out to be a horribly distasteful prank, at least he would still get to kiss the cook. Sanji wasn’t showing any sign of retreating, but his patience would only stretch so far.

“Go ahead and do it, or are you too much of a coward?” he taunted, tilting his head slightly to emphasize his cocky grin.

Zoro let go of the cook’s belt and gripped his waist instead, pulling them closer together as he responded to the challenge with a hard kiss. His back slammed into the brick wall as Sanji used the momentum from his pull to press him against the hard surface. The love-cook quickly overwhelmed him with more “proof” than the swordsman could reasonably deny, swallowing his groan of approval and parting their lips to force his tongue into the swordsman’s mouth.

Zoro’s head was spinning with disbelief and sudden arousal as his mind wrestled with the two conflicting notions of Sanji’s apparent hatred for him and the _very_ apparent hard-on that was pressing up against him. The cook’s thigh had wedged itself between his legs and was quickly causing a mixture of delightfully stimulating friction and uncomfortable tightness in his pants. Suddenly it made sense why Sanji had propositioned him so bluntly—he was horny as hell.

 _Fuck it, I’ll suck him off right here if he wants me too,_ Zoro thought dazedly, gasping as the blond broke apart to press his lips against the base of the other man's throat and drag his tongue across the skin there. He wouldn’t be surprised if Sanji could feel his pulse jump under his mouth because Zoro was not exactly experienced with these sorts of things, and even if he had been, he couldn’t imagine receiving a kiss quite like that one. There was really only one word to describe it— _dirty._

“Is this enough proof for you, stupid-swordsman?” he murmured breathlessly, dropping one last kiss on the tingling love-bite that was forming just above the other man’s collar. Zoro blinked stupidly at the sudden coolness that washed over him when the cook abruptly stepped out of the embrace, erasing the contact between them. He was surprised by the intensity of his disappointment at the loss and wished that they were in a more private location so that he could insist on removing some of the blond’s clothes and getting a taste of _his_ skin.       

“I thought you said you had class,” he remarked, just as breathless.

Sanji snorted and said, “Of course. That’s why I’m not going to letting you do anything else until we’re indoors, pervert. Anyone could walk by right now—imagine if your mother came back to scold you some more?”

“Ugh, hell, don’t remind me—that’s one way to kill a boner, though. Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he suggested, peeling himself off of the wall to head back towards the main road.

“It’s the other way, dumbass.”

“They both lead out to the street, don’t they?” Zoro argued, glad that the heat in his face from their kiss would mask his embarrassment at having an even worse sense of direction than usual when he was distracted.

“Not if we’re heading to the Baratie. I need my car—unless you were planning to fuck me in the store room, which would be incredibly unprofessional of me, not to mention unsanitary.”

“What if I want you to fuck _me_ , Cook?”

Sanji’s curly eyebrow went up in pleasant surprise—perhaps he had some preconceived idea of how this was supposed to work considering their very different body types, but Zoro didn’t want to take anything off the table. If the blond could fuck even half as aggressively as he kissed then the swordsman was definitely willing to switch it up. Even though he wasn’t a very promiscuous person, there was one thing he’d learned from the few times he’d bottomed, and it was that he _really_ liked it rough. Just thinking about the cook’s powerful legs driving his cock into him was making the swordsman hard again.

“I’m open to suggestions,” Sanji told him humorously, “but we still need a proper bed—or at least a couch.”

“Darn, no floor sex? What a bore.”

The cook just rolled his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets, turning to lead the swordsman back the way they came. They stopped in at the Baratie to clean the blood off of Zoro’s face, which the swordsman reluctantly allowed the other man to help him with since he was impatient and still a little horny.

“I was serious about cooking for us. Are you hungry?” Sanji asked him after.

“Not for food,” Zoro replied instantly, pleased when the blond mirrored his smirk and raised an eyebrow at the bold statement.

“Never would’ve figured you for someone who’d drop cheesy lines like that. Get in the car, loser—and don’t come crying to me after I tire you out.”

Zoro flushed when the other man shot him a wink because the swordsman _wasn’t_ the type to drop lines, and he was especially unused to hearing them directed at himself. He knew that Sanji was just as full of bullshit as him, so he replied, “That’s an empty threat coming from you, Cook. As if you’d let me starve. You’re probably already thinking about what food you have in the fridge that I might like to eat after sex.”

“…Well, you’re not wrong. How do you feel about Pad Thai?”

“I don’t even know what that is,” Zoro told him, stopping in the parking lot to climb into the passenger seat of his sleek, black convertible. The inside smelled like Sanji’s cologne, which simultaneously calmed the swordsman and also sent his heart racing. He had never been to Sanji’s apartment aside from the one or two times their group of friends had stopped by to pick him up or drop him off in the lobby. Being invited into the cook’s private space—even if it was just for sex—was something of an honor since Sanji rarely allowed people into his home and never hosted events. He preferred to cook in his friends’ kitchens, though Zoro couldn't think of why that might be.

“You don’t know much about food, do you? I think that’s a bit of a failure on my part.”

“Nothing at all, no. I…don’t know much about you either,” he remarked, suddenly realizing that he probably knew less about Sanji than the other man knew about him, even before his mother had revealed so much.

The cook froze at Zoro’s words, his hand on the keys as they rested in the ignition. He seemed reluctant to respond, which immediately caused a flutter of panic in the swordsman’s chest. He’d never been good at talking to people and reading the atmosphere, or whatever the hell people called it when you were expected to say one thing or else shut up, so he was at a complete loss as to what was or wasn’t appropriate conversation for a moment like this. Perhaps it would be best to sit in silence until the clothes started coming off instead of attempting to fill it with idle chatter.

After a pause, which felt painfully long to Zoro although it was probably only a few seconds, Sanji revved the engine to life and let out a small sigh. “I have my reasons for keeping things to myself…maybe even the same reason that you never bothered to tell me about your family.”

“I don’t know about that, but…I guess I never brought it up because you’re different.”

“Different? How so?” he asked curiously.

“I don’t talk about personal stuff with the others because I know they’d just feel bad for me, which is totally unnecessary. Nobody’s life is perfect. I don’t need a pity-party looking at me like I’m pathetic…but you—I don’t know, I guess you’re the one person who I wouldn't expect to change whether I told you or not.”

“It still would’ve been nice of you to tell me that I was hitting on a dead girl, though.”

“She was ten-years-old, by the way.”

“GAH! This is what I mean! You could’ve at least mentioned _that!”_ he complained, flipping a middle finger when Zoro just laughed.

After a moment, the swordsman returned to the previous topic, too curious about the other man’s answer to be diverted. “So is that why you don’t talk about yourself?” he asked. “I didn’t really notice before, but now that I think about it, you always redirect conversations away from yourself. I don’t even think any of us know your last name.”

Zoro was surprised to see that the cook’s reaction was even more reserved at this statement. Sanji’s already pale skin turned a ghastly shade of white, his hands gripping the steering wheel too tightly as he fought his obvious desire to avoid responding. Finally he looked at the swordsman, who met his eye unflinchingly even though there was a familiar hardness there that reminded him too much of his own.

“Yeah…that’s why. I don’t think the others would understand. It’s not their fault, though—I just don’t want to burden them with it…but you…you probably _would_ understand, and I can't imagine you’d look at me any differently either. That’s why I didn’t think it was necessary to say anything to you...and besides, that touchy-feely shit just isn't how we work.”

Zoro nodded—it was exactly how he felt. Whatever they’d experienced in their past, neither of them needed words to convey understanding. Ever since the first day they’d started tossing insults back and forth like footballs, there had always been a sense of _knowing_ that they could never have been described with words. Especially for Zoro, who had difficulties navigating the social wilderness of subtle nuances, it had been refreshing to meet someone who was as fucking crazy as he was—just as rash, temperamental, and eccentric. In fact, they were similar in so many ways that it seemed impossible to have a normal friendship, especially since the constant discord was more appealing to both of them.

“What are you thinking so hard about, marimo?” Sanji said impatiently, cutting into Zoro’s thoughts. “You’re always spacing out when people are talking to you,” he complained, completely justified for once. Zoro did have a habit of getting lost in his own head, especially when the conversation was so thought provoking.

“It’s called introspection, curly-brow. You should try it sometime.”

“No thanks…I’m a little afraid of what I’d find.”

“Probably just some weird kinks and a few homicidal tendencies.”

“Gee, you have such a high opinion of me,” Sanji scoffed sarcastically, smiling despite the insults.

“If you really want to know, I was thinking that we’d make terrible friends,” he admitted.

“Aren’t we sort of that already? Bad friends with benefits.”

“Just drive the damn car, you freak.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, asshole.”

“I think a pervert like you would  _enjoy_ it if I told you what to do,” he quipped slyly.

“I hope you enjoy it when I put my foot up your ass,” Sanji growled, flushing slightly.

“Yep. There’s one of those weird kinks I was talking a— _ow!_ ”

“Oops—almost ran over a cat. You should’ve put your seat-belt on, shitty-swordsman.”

“You’re actually gonna be the death of me, Cook. What the hell am I getting myself into?”

“Well _—_ ”

“And  _d_ _on’t_ say ‘me’.”

“…Damn it.”


End file.
